


in which the author is horny for a one-off joke character

by HaroThar



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Escape, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Near Death Experiences, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22411546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaroThar/pseuds/HaroThar
Summary: The man showed up for two pages just to die and he's my FAVORITE
Relationships: Goldeneyes Silverhand Dactylos/Original Female Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	in which the author is horny for a one-off joke character

“There will be a short period of mourning, as befits a master craftsman,” said the Arch-astronomer, and the slave readied herself. She knew her master’s whims enough by now to know he was only pausing long enough for the joke to be funny. Funny to some. Funny to him. 

A bluebottle fly set itself down on one golden eye. Just the one, though, and upon finding nothing but faintly-glowing gold, it flew away.

“That would seem to be long enough,” said the Arch-astronomer, and beckoned the slave and two others of her rank to come carry the corpse away. Dallying won no favors to slaves, which were found in abundance there at the edge of the world, and easily dispatched and disposed of, so she rushed with the others, on silent feet, with silent, hollow mouths. She got one of the thickset, heavy arms over her comparatively minuscule shoulders, hoisting with her legs as the others took his right arm, the one with the silver hand, and his damaged legs.

Perhaps it was because the hand was silver, and the legs were hamstrung, that she was the only one who felt it. Or perhaps they simply didn’t notice, too focused on the fear of the Arch-astronomer looming menacingly behind them, caught up in some meaningless conversation about the edge of the world and turtle genitals. Perhaps their minds simply blocked it out, the gentle, featherlight sensation of a pulse.

\--

She’d been around Krull for not only months, but multiple years, which gave her seniority over the majority of slaves there. Most were killed or flung themselves into the endless, frozen abyss within the year’s turn. So she met no resistance when she led the group away from the dumping grave, where corpses and the desperate were carried by the endless tide into the nothing below. They did not question her when she had them set the massive “corpse” down in what was, by all accounts, her “room.” They didn’t have tongues to question her, of course, but even if they did, she probably would’ve gotten a weird look at most, which was all she got at present. If she wanted a corpse stinking up her closet, they weren’t going to waste their energy on it.

She finished her jobs for the day, of course, the actions just as dull and repetitive and strenuous as ever, but she got ahold of some disinfecting moss, a rather large roll of bandages that she stuck into the belt of her knee-length skirt, and an extra bread roll. 

She drank half the cup of water, and returned to her room. If she found a corpse then she found a corpse, but she doubted that he’d be dead. The arrow hadn’t killed him outright--he’d been right. It was sloppy workmanship.

She surveyed him, setting her supplies down one by one at the side of her little straw mat, which his ankles hung off of and his shoulders filled from side to side. This man had built the fish that would swim between the stars. He’d built golems and dams and palaces, plus all sorts of things that she would likely never see or hear of. His body of work was vaster, even, than his own body, spanning the diameter of the disc. 

She stared at his face a long moment, contemplating all the things he’d seen before he’d lost his eyes (and, disconcertingly enough, eyelids) to the cruel hands of people much like her master. What had his hands touched and felt, before he lost half their number? Where had he traveled, before he had been damned to hobble about on crippled legs?

He was naked except for his toolbelt and an abacus built into his silver hand, but she was naked save for her skirt and the collar she wore, so it didn’t matter. It _theoretically_ didn’t matter; it wasn’t her fault he was far more handsome than the other slaves running around. Most clung to the clothes they’d worn when they washed into the circumfence, not wanting to trade their pride for something clean, and she had in fact been among their number when she’d first lost her tongue and freedom. But her dignity followed not too terribly long after, and this close to the rim was _hot,_ so she’d finally gotten a fresh skirt and a redefined sense of pride, one where nudity no longer affected her.

Her own nudity, that is. Not the nudity of Goldeneyes Silverhand Dactylos, which, for simplicity's sake, she was just going to think of him as Goldeneyes in her head. His full name was rather long. And if referring to him by his first name only was overly familiar, well, she couldn't do so out loud.

She pressed the moss to his wound, which had left crusty blood in little trickles all over his broad chest, and her nose twitched at the faintly pleasant scent of the moss working its magic. It was tangy, almost, but lacking the sour quality. A flicker of octarine wisped up off of the moss, but her eyes were open, and as such, she missed it.

 _Would it have been kinder to let you die?_ she thought to herself, removing the moss and, along with it, most of the crusted blood, the moss feeding upon it as most plants fed on sunlight. Something about the particular quality of clotting made it edible to the stuff. She wasn’t a wizard or a scientist, and didn’t know, and, being the nature of people who live around magic but do not practice it, was not overly inclined to care.

 _You didn’t sound like you wanted to die,_ she thought as she bandaged the clean wound, her thin arms struggling with the sheer size of him. _But then, you sounded very tired, too. Would it have been kinder to fling you from the cliff, and let DEATH come take you?_

She felt that if DEATH could come personally for wizards, who, as far as she was concerned, were an unpleasant, rather silly lot, then surely he would come for a craftsman of Goldeneyes’ caliber. 

He had no eyelids to flutter, so she was caught off guard when she found him, quite suddenly, to be awake, and firmly grasping her wrist. She squeaked, but made no more noise than that. She was, after all, alive on Krull after years of slavery--she’d learned better than to draw attention to herself. 

His silver hand, he lifted to the wound at his chest, finding it bandaged. His fingers surrounded her thin wrist easily, the breadth of his palm covering a near half of her forearm. She tried not to be excited about that. Especially since she had no idea what he’d do, now that he was awake, and out from beneath the Arch-astronomer’s special attentions.

“Who are you?”

She had no way to answer that, and he couldn’t see, thus limiting their communication further.

“A physician?” he prompted. That one was easier to answer. She cupped the underside of his hand and used both her arms to lift his to her face. He released her wrist at her prompting, and she placed one of his thick fingers in her mouth. He felt the absence of her tongue, and she felt that if he used three fingers, he’d fill her mouth entirely.

“A slave,” he said, quieter, and even the impassive face he wore fell away into something rather softer. “Am I to be kept alive for the Arch-astronomer’s whims?”

She shook her head, pressing the back of his hand against her cheek so he could feel it.

“Does he know I survived his mockery of an arrow?”

She shook her head again. His palm was warm against her own.

“You saved me?”

She nodded. He moved his hand back to her wrist, feeling the thinness of it, trailing up her arm only as far as her elbow.

“On your own?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

She tapped the back of his hand three times, then placed it on the mat. He laid there a moment, pondering the gesture, then guessed. “Three other slaves helped you carry me here?”

Eh, close enough. She lifted his hand to her face and nodded.

“Do they know I’m alive?”

She placed his hand on her shoulder and shrugged.

“So as far as anyone knows, you’re the only person aware that I am alive,” Goldeneyes said as he finally sat up, slow, cautious of his wound, silver hand to the mat and the other settled lightly on her shoulder.

She felt a spike of very real fear, body frozen solid despite the rim’s heat. He felt her tension immediately, and interpreted it correctly.

“No,” he said, quick but quiet, “no, no. I will not harm you, no.” He removed his hand from her shoulder, leaving only the tip of one finger against her skin. She let out the shaky breath knotted up in her chest, and she placed her palm over his, bringing his hand back down to her shoulder. He thumbed the bare skin, feeling her take another deep breath.

“I have been hurt far too often by people who I have helped,” he told her gently, voice low and possessing little inflection.

 _All the more reason for you to take the chance to hurt someone else,_ she thought bitterly, bringing her other hand up to his thick, muscled wrist and “hugging” his arm, for lack of a better verb. 

“I promise,” he swore quietly, bringing his silver hand up to touch her back, and then it was his turn to freeze. “Ah,” he said, “You aren’t--is this, ah, standard garb for slaves?”

She supposed he probably wouldn’t have had much reason to touch any of them, during the construction of the vessel. She took his hand in both of hers and wiggled it back and forth, “so-so.”

“More or less?” he guessed, and she lifted his hand to feel her nod. “I will, be mindful of where I touch.” She placed his hand upon her shrug. She hardly minded, but she found it… sweet, how stiff it made him. If his skin were less dark, she might be able to tell if he was actually flushed, or if that was just a trick of her imagination. 

She brought his hand to the side, where she’d placed the food, and he shook his head. “No,” he said again, “that’s yours; I will not have it.”

She flipped his hand palm-up and drew the side of her own flat hand across it. “Not half, not any.”

She huffed through her nose. _Stubborn._ She took his hand downward again, and touched one of his fingers to one bread roll, a second to the other. Then she flipped his hand up again, and placed the first roll into his palm.

“You took an extra one for me?” he guessed. She brought his knuckles up to her cheek, and nodded. “You could get in trouble for that.” She nodded again. “Thank you.” she touched her lips to his knuckles, letting him feel her smile.

She ate and he ate and she insisted he drink the water, having to force him to tap the side and feel that it was only half full before he relented. _Stubborn!_ she thought again.

The sun had long passed beneath the belly of A'Tuin when Goldeneyes spoke again.

“When I required materials during the building of the vessel, I would simply remark upon the need and later, they would appear. That was the doing of slaves, yah?”

She nodded.

“So if I were to ask you to bring to me materials for building, you would not face questioning if you took them?”

She nodded again, heart lifting. He would escape. He would leave this place, return to the lands beyond Krull, where he would once again resume the life she could only begin to fathom.

He pulled her hand to him, gently flaring out her fingers, before covering her hand with his other. His hands dwarfed hers so entirely, there was nothing to be seen except her wrist, protruding from his gentle hold.

“This is your bed?” he asked a moment later, lifting the backs of two fingers to her cheek, a gentle caress. She nodded. “Then switch with me, I will sleep on the floor.”

 _A gentleman!_ she thought with a giggle, laughing a little louder (as loudly as she dared) when his fingers touched the wall of her “room.” His silver hand lifted and found the other wall much closer, and he let out a simple “Ah.”

She placed her hands upon his shoulders and pushed, knowing she would only be able to push him down if he allowed her. But like with his hand, he allowed himself to be easily maneuvered by her touch. When she settled herself atop him, brazen and more than just a little pleased with herself, he once again let out a simple “Ah.”

Cautiously, uncertainly, though his face betrayed no uncertainty, he lifted his warm hand and placed it upon her back. She smiled, and pressed her face closer to his warm skin, which smelled of kilns and bronze and sweat. His thumb moved idly over the skin of her back, faintly glowing golden eyes staring vacantly at the nothingness beyond him.

\--

It took the full scope of his creativity to construct an escape when confined to a space little wider than a closet, and only longer for the necessity of slaves with functional legs in the morning. Given that two people, although one of them small, had to also sleep inside that cramped space, it truly tested his ability. But he was Goldeneyes Silverhand Dactylos, and if he were to be considered the best craftsman in all the disc, he might as well live up to the rumor.

“Evelyn,” he murmured, and she tapped twice. _No._

“Scarlett.” A double tap.

“I’m running out of names.”

Three taps, a shrug.

“Ciara.”

Two louder taps. He chuckled, imagining her screwing up her face at the name. He set aside his tools for the night, having spent the better part of the day crafting careful pulleys, and laid down on the mat beside her. She worked hard each day and returned to her little room tired, and he felt, yet again, a strong and pressing need to remove her from this place. The faster, the better--and better for him, too. He could not live on only water for forever.

“Victoria,” he said, quieter now with her face close by. She tapped his lips twice, a cheeky little no. He’d suggested the name already, perhaps. It suited her, though, in his opinion.

He thought of the invention lying half complete around them, caging them into an even smaller space.

“Icari.”

No sound at all, for a long moment. So long he wondered if perhaps she had fallen asleep. Then a single tap, yes, to his lips. He smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. His facial muscles were… rusty. He hadn’t had much reason to use them in many years. Icari shifted closer, and he rested his arm over her body, the arm he was lying on undoubtedly going to be fully asleep in the morning, and he didn’t care.

“Sleep well, Icari,” he murmured.

A finger prodding into the center of his chest, two fingers simultaneously laid upon his skin. _You too._ He smiled again, shorter this time, and slept as well.

\--

Icari could not make out the shape of what Goldeneyes was building, but she felt it grow closer and closer to completion. Brass and copper and cloth contorted itself over her when she laid herself down at night and while she was no inventor, or particularly smart, sometimes she imagined that it would all unfurl into wings.

Wings that would carry the body beside her far away, back into a life free from this place.

“Tomorrow, I think,” Goldeneyes said as he laid down beside her. “Tomorrow, I think I will be finished.”

Then that meant tonight was the last night. The final chance Icari would have to sleep beside the warm, vast body beside her, the last time she would touch his tan skin and smell the particular scent that was his alone, her final look at the man she admired so.

Her only remaining opportunity to take his broad, warm palm, and place it upon the band of her skirt, as she set her other slender hand deliberately upon his toolbelt. The only opening she would have to hear him breathe out “Icari,” shocked and quiet and, she hoped, wanting. Having initiated, she waited, hopeful, strung tight, braced for rejection, for him to pull his warm hand away from her and tell her no, but mentally begging him _please please please please please._

Slowly, carefully, with hands that could make or break whatever he so pleased, he slipped her skirt down her hips, and she, in answer, undid his belt. She had no tongue to speak and he had no eyes to see, but in the dark of the night and the new familiarity they shared, they needed neither, his large hands careful on her thin body, her body pressed to his.

Morning came too soon, as it always did, but this time for a different reason. It was the last morning she would have a name, though it was a much later morning for that than anyone else in Krull was aware of. She hugged him before she left, risking punishment for dawdling, but she didn’t know if he would leave right after his invention’s completion, and she knew all too well how the tides of time and fate could pull things from her without her expecting such. 

Her work was not sloppy, and her mind stayed diligently upon her tasks. She would not be punished for her sorrow, not that day, not when she knew better. She got her wrists smacked anyway, but she felt that was not unreasonable.

He was still in her room when she returned that night, and she was surprised. Did she have one last night after all? Or was this only to say goodbye?

“I’ve finished,” he said when she placed her palm upon his arm. He ran his metal hand along the metal of the contraption, and she imagined, again, wings, wings as though for an angel. “I know you have worked long and hard all this day, but night is the only time when we might use this. In the day, the sun will heat the metal so we cannot touch it, and we will need to land.”

We?

Icari took his hand and curled three fingers to point, and pressed his index finger to her chest.

“You?” he said, not comprehending. She directed his arm to the window, from which he had felt the warmth of the sun filter through, and from which the breeze of the sea flowed. 

“Yes, we’re going to have to leave through the window. This room sounds high enough for us to catch the wind beneath us before we hit water; it won’t be dangerous.”

Again, that we. She pointed his finger to her chest again, but could not think beyond that. Could not convey her disbelief. 

“You…” His clever mind worked faster than hers, and strung together what she could not say. “Icari,” he breathed, moving his hands to encircle her, to pull her into him and hold her fast. She could only press into him, heart thudding in her chest. “Icari, of course you’re coming with. You thought I would leave you?”

She nodded. She would’ve never held it against him, either. She would not have been bitter. She was ready to be happy for him, to know that he had escaped this place and moved on to better things. Why would he take some speechless, undersized woman with him, anyway?

She’d never thought she would leave this place. 

That was the core of it really, she thought, as Goldeneyes lifted her into something like a seat, something like a hammock--only smaller. She’d never dared to think she could leave this place, had never allowed herself to. Even when presented with a situation where any reasonable person would think of it.

But she hadn’t been a person, she’d been a slave. And now, if this worked… maybe she could be a person again. Or, if it didn’t, she’d be dead, and that was alright too. She’d risk it.

Goldeneyes, with his broad arms and strong hands, worked the machine’s levers, a handle in each palm, and Icari could not help the small, startled yelp when he stepped forward, metal and cloth bound tight around the two, and leapt from the window. The machine unfurled in a rush, catching the sea wind like sails. Like wings.

They _were_ wings.

They were flying.

\--

Being an innkeeper meant Tagane didn’t really have much place or reason to judge. All kinds of folk, after all. But there was something strange about that silver-handed man and his mute wife, if you asked Tagane. Like he knew them, but not really. Just, just off. Not that he thought them bad people, no, the blind man had tipped well and the thin woman was sweet, just. He couldn’t place it.

Best not to worry about it, Tagane thought to himself, turning back to survey the number of tasks he could be doing instead, picking one. Besides, the man’s empty eye sockets were a garish sight; not something to stare at too long.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone actually reads this, please leave a comment! 
> 
> I didn't find any Goldeneyes fic in all of AO3 despite Goldeneyes being my favorite and also hilarious, so, I decided it is best to write the fic you wish to read in this world.


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